


Let It Snow

by thelostcolony



Series: On The Twelve Days Of Christmas, I Gave To My Best Friend... [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Mentions of Major Character Death, Other, doesn't this sound like a great fic already, jeez sorry i'm just terrible at tagging this is actually an ok fic, look I finally got around to posting it!! Merry Christmas Angie!!, shhhhhh I know i'm a terrible person shshshsh, this is a christmas gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9851453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: It doesn't normally snow in Virginia.Rick knows that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this fic was "On the twelfth day of Christmas, Daryl Dixon gave to me: Twelve People Mourning Glenn Rhee" so honestly just do with that what you will

It doesn’t normally snow in Virginia.

Rick knows that. There’s not much he knows anymore beyond the Apocalypse - not since everything he’d learned Before seems so inconsequential. There’s  _ only  _ the Apocalypse now; no one needs to know the history of America except for how the months before the Outbreak led up to it. There’s no need to know geography beyond what they can use. He’d trade in all his knowledge about culture and nationality and foreign nations and grammar if he just knew how to make one more trap, or use one more weapon, or how to tell just one more poisonous plant from the next. Anything to know how to keep breathing - how to keep his  _ family _ breathing - just  _ one  _ more moment. 

But there’s some information that just doesn’t leave him - the useless sort that just chews up space in his brain and doesn’t do much else. He knows about European history. He knows about random statistics from his math days. He knows how to use the computers back at his old department like he knows how to clean his gun. It’s clear as day, so ingrained in him he can’t even forget it when he tries.

So it doesn’t normally snow in Virginia - especially not before the New Year.

But here Rick is, standing out on the porch in the pressing darkness, watching the snowfall in thick, fat flakes. It’s sure to stick ‘til morning, something that will please the kids in equal measure - Carl for all he doesn’t admit it and Judith for all she doesn’t understand. The thought curves the corners of his lips despite the ache that’s eating through his chest.

He’s holding a drink, but it’s not doing much but sitting there in the glass, as full as it was when he first received it at the evening’s beginning. He’s cold out here on the porch, especially with his bare arms, but he stands there and endures the pain of the burn that fills his lungs at every inhale, at the ache that occurs on every exhale. The crowd inside is considerably quiet - but he can’t blame them. He himself is quiet. They’re all quiet nowadays.

It’s the first Christmas they’ve truly celebrated together - properly, with a tree and the best presents that they can find - and with the threat of Negan no longer over their heads, they can rest easy knowing they’re safe enough to enjoy the night. Knowing that their time is limited, so they must enjoy it. Knowing that despite the limitation, they’re safe and warm and cared for for now, and that’s really all that matters.

But there are two gaping absences that no one can ignore. No matter how cheerful they try to seem; no matter how fully they try to forget for just one night.

Rick purses his lips, nose protesting the movement; the tip of it is cold, the motion brittle as if it’s frozen. His whole face is feeling the chill; without his beard, the cold seems much more biting. He hadn’t noticed it last winter - but with Negan on the prowl and with everything that had occurred, there hadn’t been much time to study how his face felt when he stood out and watched the snow.

He’d been much too preoccupied. They all had.

As awful as Negan had been, he’d kept them busy. That was for sure.

Rick presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose, pinching. The pressure is grounding; helps him to focus less on the moisture he can feel prickling in his eyes and more on his surroundings. He’d come out here for fresh air, not to ponder all they’d lost. The air inside, though filled with the scents of holly and pine and the quiet cooing of their newest addition, was stifling in its wistfulness. The soft misery that filled everyone’s hearts gave them enough pause - just enough - when they spoke or laughed to let all there know where - with whom - their thoughts were tonight.

Rick’s included.

“Damn,” he murmurs, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, fingers numb. He rubs them absently against the denim of his pockets and stares out at the houses across the street, at the people celebrating there. They had been invited tonight, sure - but no one had wanted to intrude, he supposes, because they had very politely smiled and said that they’d had plans. Even Eric, who was expressly invited as part of their family, had turned them down, had kissed Aaron’s cheek and told him he was going next door at the beginning of the evening. 

Rick had been right earlier; the snow is definitely sticking. There’s at least an inch on the ground by now. The kids will enjoy it in the morning; maybe Enid will join Carl and Judith when they play. Enid would do most anything for Judith - and Erin, for that matter. Rick can hear the baby’s joyful, bubbly laughter from where he stands, even through doors and walls. It makes his lips curl upwards again - and just as quickly, the falling snow wipes it from his face.

His eyes fix themselves on the blurry night sky. Last night the moon had been nearly completely full, but of course he isn’t able to see if it is tonight on account of the clouds. Still, he imagines it is. He imagines the stars are bright tonight.

It doesn’t normally snow in Virginia.

He sighs; stamps his feet against the porch to get some feeling back into his toes. He knows what he’s going to do in the next five minutes. He knows he’s going to turn around and go back inside where it’s warm, where Rosita and Daryl and Michonne and Maggie and Sasha and Aaron and Carl and Eugene and Gabriel and Carol and Enid are waiting for him. He knows he’ll kiss Michonne on the cheek when she looks at him in concern, Judith in her arms. He knows he’ll squeeze Carl’s shoulder when his boy grimaces at him in understanding that’s far too mature for his age. He knows he’ll smooth Enid’s hair when her eyes - glassy - fall to Maggie where she bounces Erin in her lap, Aaron laughing sedately alongside because that’s all he can do for her. He knows he’ll meet Rosita’s eyes, and won’t be able to meet Eugene’s or Sasha’s; know he’ll see Gabriel’s head bent in prayer, as it’s been all night. He knows Daryl will avoid his gaze altogether, removed from the family, and knows that just as quickly he will pull Daryl right back in because it’s not truly his fault.

But for now, Rick is standing on the porch, the Christmas Eve air chilly and full of ghosts, the snow full of unspoken promises and missing family, the moon invisible tonight for the clouds. Because it doesn’t normally snow in Virginia, and next year, he might be able to see the stars. But for now the snow, pure and sparkling under the light that spills out from inside, and the blanket of quiet that lays over the night is enough.

There is nothing to fear tonight. There are no demons lurking in the dark. He knows that. 

There are some things that he just seems to know sometimes. 

He takes a deep breath and watches it mist in front of his face. 

From inside, he can hear the soft chatter of family, safe and sound and protected for now.

“Thank you,” he rasps - chokes on their names. “Thank you.”

And that’s okay, he thinks as he turns away from the falling snow and reaches for the doorknob that will carry him back into light and warmth and family. That’s okay. Because there are some things that people fundamentally know, even if they try to forget them.

And he’s sure that Glenn and Abraham know that _he_ knows it doesn’t normally snow in Virginia.


End file.
